The Four Food Groups
by wetrustno1
Summary: Collection of one-shots to satisfy every craving. Fluff, angst, drabbles, and HC. After all, variety is the spice of life, and when it comes to John and Sherlock, anything is possible.. All Johnlock, but may vary from friendship to romantic. EXPECT LOTS OF SICKFICS/HC.
1. Author's Note

The Four Food Groups:

Collection of one-shots to satisfy every craving. Pick your poison: Sweet and fluffy, dark and angsty, bright and funny, or the warm tartness of a little H/C. It's important to get your daily fill of all four of these delectable categories, because after all; variety is the spice of life.

Before we begin...

Firstly, thank you for expressing interest in this little project of mine!

Here's what you can expect from the various categories to follow. I anticipate this to be a long-term work in progress type of collection, but want to maintain a certain level of organization within the chapters. I know that it gets a bit tedious to read a 20+ chapter fic that is comprised completely of one-shots (especially as you want to go back and only read certain chapters but can't remember which one it was.) As such, I will do my best to label all the chapters with their corresponding genre and update as frequently as possible. Each "chapter" will be a self-contained one-shot, and may vary in POV and pre/post Johnlock slash. Some may contain an established romantic relationship, others may just be platonic, so don't expect a constant level of intimacy.

Reviews and comments are very much appreciated, so if you have a moment to send a bit of feedback my way, I will love you forever 3


	2. Personal Space

**Title:** Personal Space: AKA Embarrassment In The 3rd Degree

**Genre:** Humor. Non-slash. Mild romantic overtones.

**Summary**: A heated argument and a stolen laptop land John in a most uncomfortable position- hiding in Sherlock's closet, and he may end up seeing a little more of the detective than usual.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

This was all Sherlock's fault.

John leaned against the wall outside the bathroom door, face flushed in embarrassment as he tried (and failed) to erase the last five minutes out of his mind forever.

It was pointless.

It was too late for him to do anything about it, and frankly, John would have felt quite bad, except that as per usual, Sherlock had claimed the upper hand, but simply chosen to ignore the social mannerisms encouraged by society for dealing with said situation, and simply using the awkwardness to his own advantage.

Part of him thought Sherlock had enjoyed it.

A very small part of John said he might have too.

The rest of him quickly smashed that thought into the ground and flushed an even brighter shade of red

John closed his eyes, and fruitlessly tried to rid his mind of the very bright image now burned into his brain, (probably forever) of Sherlock's impeccably naked body, practically glowing in front of the mirror, an evil glint in those steely eyes.

John was going to kill him.

...60 MINUTES PREVIOUSLY...

John stormed around the flat, looking for _his _laptop to no avail. He and Sherlock had gotten into a bit of a tiff over the idea of personal property, and it had not ended particularly well. John had lived with plenty of roommates in the past, and had a fair amount of experience with dealing with just about every type of issue that might flare up between two people living in close quarters. He liked to think of himself as both patient and fair, and had always been a film believer in the power of communication between individuals. If there was a problem, and the two people talked about it, the problem would be resolved. If this theory worked on those with regular IQ's and minimal conversational skills, well then, he imagined that Sherlock would be just as cooperative, if not easier, to convay ideas with. He was wrong. Sherlock was not only unresponsive, Sherlock was downright impossible. John was tolerant enough about the majority of goings-on in the flat, and had a remarkably high tolerance for the explosions, mood-swings, and unusual contents of the fridge which Sherlock seemed to track around with him no matter where he went. John was generally unbothered by these unusual hobbies and experiments, and had learned to live with the fact that Sherlock rarely, if ever slept, and would often resort to gun-fire or long rants through the flat late into the night. John eventually learned to deal with it all, and after a few weeks, it bothered him less and less.

What bothered him was the lack of privacy.

When he discovered that Sherlock had been reading his E-mails, and then began interjecting his own, none-too-delicate opinions about what John should do about "that dim-witted girl you've been flirting with in those ridiculous love-letters", that John began to be bothered by their close proximity. He had changed his password and hidden the laptop, but Sherlock always seemed to be able to find and unlock it. On the third time John came home to find his flatmate writing away on his computer, John had lost it. He had heatedly ranted about the idea of "personal space" and how he would really appreciate if Sherlock would NOT use his computer, thank you very much. Sherlock had stared at him, expressionless, and then continued to write. John slammed the laptop shut and hid it in his sock drawer. He then went to the store for groceries. He returned half an hour later to find Sherlock in exactly the same spot, computer in tow. John locked it in his closet, and increased the security on all the files.

By 6:00 the next morning, the laptop was gone.

By 6:03, the relative stillness of the flat had been exploded into a million pieces, profanity flying through the air in an endless exchange of rage, and by 6:15, Sherlock had stormed out of the flat, slamming the door and ignoring Mrs. Hudson's concerned attempts at peacemaking. John himself had been quite angry, but decided that Sherlock's absence was a good opportunity to scour the flat in search of the laptop. The last 10 minutes had marked the beginning of said search, and John had yet to obtain any satisfactory results.

He knew Sherlock had it hidden _somewhere_, but had yet to discover where exactly it was stashed. John began to tear through everything he could find, reminding himself vaguely of Sherlock during one of his smoking rants, but quickly pushed that thought away as he continued to search for the computer. He looked under every book, every stack of papers, every box of beakers and even under the rugs. He even went so far as to look in the fridge, on top of the bookshelves, and spent a few minutes trying to check for secret hiding places under the floorboards. John had recovered a few unusual items from under a lose floorboard in the hallway (including a half-full jar of some kind of congealed greenish substance and three dead mice), and even stumbled across a box of lemon candies stashed in a faux-fur muffler in the closet for no apparent reason, but seen neither hide nor hair of his damn laptop.

Finally he came to the conclusion that there was no laptop anywhere in the kitchen or living room, which basically left Sherlock's bedroom as the only probable remaining hiding spot. John carefully made his way down the hallway to the room, feeling slightly uneasy and yet childishly excited simultaneously as he pushed on the faded door and peeked inside. Sherlock probably wouldn't be gone long, but John figured he still had a good five minutes to snoop around.

The bedroom was surprisingly.. _clean, _atleast by Sherlock's standards_. _John looked around, slightly hesitant, as he took a few steps inside, observing the uncharacteristic cleanliness with a rather critical eye. The bed was made up with expensive-looking cotton sheets and a beautiful satin duvet. The closet was very slightly open, revealing a few inches of pristine closet space, rows of shirts all hanging up, expertly pressed and washed to maximize their rich array of colors. The only other objects in the room were a dresser and full length mirror opposite the closet, and a dozen or so stacks of papers, haphazardly heaped in a corner amid a few cluttered boxes. Boxes aside, the room was not nearly as bad as he had imagined, just dark and sort of depressingly blank. Then again, John was not exactly one for ornate decor himself, and knowing Sherlock he supposed that this was to be expected.

Shaking himself back to the task at hand, John made his way to the boxes and began to rummage around, curiosity getting the better of him. A lot of it was papers, but there also appeared to be a small quantity of ominous looking contraptions, including what John was fairly sure was a small, fully functioning guillotine. He tried not to linger on the specifics, instead honing in on any potential hiding places for the missing laptop. He found several knives, three match books, a small box of buttons, a barbed utensil (which almost looked like a fork, except it was 2 feet long and covered in spikes), and a bible which appeared to be written completely backwards. He also encountered several horribly mangled MP3 players in varying degrees of flame exposure (experiments, clearly) and a mini-fridge (next to the dresser) containing several (hopefully animal) embryos. After ten minutes of snooping, he had still come up with nothing of importance. John sighed irritably, and was about ready to leave, when he saw something catch his eye from the back of the open closet. It was a bit too dark to see clearly, but the corner of something shiny was visibly sticking out from under a stack of folders on the very top shelf, about the right size and shape of a laptop. Swiftly, John made his way to the closet, stretching up as far he could to try and reach it.

"Come on..."

He stretched and reached as much as he could, but try as he might, his arm was just ever slightly too-short.

"Oh for the love of-" He climbed rather clumsily onto the bottom corner shelf which was full of socks, and reached again. His fingers bearly brushed the corner of the shiny rectangle, and he almost had it, when-

The bang of the front door startled John and caused him to slip, hitting the side of the closet rather painfully and stifling a string of curses. Irritable footsteps echoed down the hallway, signaling that at any moment the room's owner would crash through the door. It was too late to slip out the way he had came, so without thinking, John shut the closet doors and closed himself inside. He was not a second too soon, for the moment the closet swung shut, the bedroom door was forced open, and Sherlock stormed inside. He flopped onto the bed, huffing and muttering a bit under his breath. He laid like that for a good two minutes or so, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, squinting every now and again as though through sheer will-power he might burn a hole in it. John nervously moved deeper into the closet silently, wondering how long he might have to hide in here. The minutes ticked by, and he began to get fidgety. The awkward standing position he had found himself in was starting to get really uncomfortable, and a stray hanger dug into his shoulder blade. John gritted his teeth, knowing that if he moved at all, the cat-like senses of the detective would pick up on his feeble hideout instantly, and somehow having to explain why he was hiding in a closet like a five-year-old was not exactly a discussion he planned on having in the near future. God, why did Sherlock have to be so immature? If he had just stayed out of John's things to begin with, this would never have happened. But no, Sherlock just had to be... _Sherlock, _and so here John was, locked in a closet with absolutely no clue how he could exit without being noticed. He silently fumed, praying that Sherlock would get a call from Lestrade, Mycroft, anything to get him out of this damn room. How long had he been in here? Minutes? Hours? Time ticked by, and before long, John was beginning to seriously regret his foolish hiding spot. His back was killing him, his legs were slowly falling asleep, and still there was no sign of movement from the bed.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, Sherlock sat up, a hand ruffling through his hair. He scowled at the wall, apparently deep in thought. After a moment he smiled to himself, just a little twitch of the left side of his mouth. The smile in and of itself was not creepy, but there was something about the impish glow from those grey-blue eyes that made John a little nervous. Suddenly Sherlock stood up completely, unwinding his scarf and dropping it to the floor. Shoes and socks came next. His coat soon followed. Very slowly he moved toward the mirror across the room, and John could see the detective's entire reflection from head to toe from his vantage point. The closet was of the old-fashioned variety, with slated doors, each wood panel a half inch or so apart, with just enough space for John to have a complete view of the room without Sherlock being able to see.

Sherlock combed a few fingers through his messy curls, head tilting to one side. He exhaled slow, deep, before bringing his hands to the row of dark buttons along his chest. The delicate fingers undid the first, then second, then third button. John bit his lip from the darkness of the closet, trying to stifle the breath that was threatening to catch in his throat at any moment. He watched, transfixed at the graceful path of the spider-like digits, tracing a rythmic pattern along the plum colored cloth. _Not good, _he thought to himself._ Definitely not good. _What was he doing? Hiding in his flatmate's closet, watching him undress? Oh god what was he doing? What was he- any other thoughts melted away as a few inches of creamy white flesh were reveled, and suddenly John was not thinking much of anything except that he longed to see what lay underneath the rest of that five and six were undone painfully slowly, so that by the time the last one was unfastened, Sherlock's shirt was not the only thing which had come completely undone.

_Pull yourself together. _John thought. _You are NOT gay. Not gay, not gay, not gay not-_

Then why could he not pull his gaze away? Try as he might, he could not physically find the energy required to look anywhere except the porcelain torso reflected in the mirror. Sculpted shoulders, faintly defined muscles that dipped down between two chiseled hipbones. It was beautiful. Angelic. Obscene.

Sherlock dropped the shirt onto the bed, hands moving to his pant zipper.

_No. _Thought John. _Oh no please don't, don't don't do it..._

But the spidery fingers had plans of their own. With a whisper of fabric, the black trousers were just an inky pool on the carpet, and John's mouth suddenly went very dry. Sherlock stood before the mirror just in his underwear. The thin fabric was ever so slightly transparent, and (NOT like he was looking there...) were even more revealing than the white sheet he had worn to Buckingham Palace a few months prior. Then the hands were at work again, and John had a fleeting thought of crying out, of jumping out of the closet and admitting defeat, if only to save him from the image which he knew would be burned into his brain at any moment.

But then it was too late.

A puddle of white cotton joined in with the black of the trousers, and John had to bite his tongue to hold back the groan of pleasure and humiliation that was dangerously close to surfacing. Oh he was gorgeous. Greek sculptures could not to justice to the figure in front of him. Bottecelli's angels were gargoyles in comparison, and any vague memories of the women he had slept with over the years all flew out the door. Heat rose to John's cheeks, and he seemed to have momentarily forgotten to breathe. What was breathing? No need. It wasn't important right now. From between the slats John continued to watch, feeling dirty and childish and completely exhilarated all at once. A small part of his brain reminded him that this was a terrible idea, and could only end badly, but John quickly snuffed out that thought with another wave of Sherlock. The dark curls were stark against the pale skin, and those eyes practically bore through his own, through his soul, through his-

Through his eyes.

John froze.

Not simply in the mirror, not in his general direction, but directly into _his_ eyes.

John could practically hear his stomach drop through the floor, and suddenly felt as though he had been hit by a 10,000 pound truck. No, there is absolutely no way that Sherlock could know he was here...

"What ever happened to privacy?" Sherlock's voice was loud and clear and obviously intended for John. "Good god John, I'd never pegged you for the snooping type."

John opened and closed his mouth mutely, lost for words.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tone suddenly bored. "I suggest you get out of my closet. There's a jar of eyes in the back and I'd rather you didn't step on them."

Slowly, John opened the door, stepping out into the room. Sherlock did not turn around, but remained standing facing the mirror, completely naked, blue eyes briefly meeting John's in their reflection. His face was neither angry nor amused, just blankly uninterested, as usual. John squirmed under his gaze, unsure what to do or say.

"I...I... didn't mean to... I was just..."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

John decided it was best to just shut up and leave as quickly as possible. He practically ran to the door, hand closing around the knob before Sherlock interrupted him.

"John?"

John turned slightly, determinedly keeping his gaze directly on Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" He pointed to the closet, and it was a moment before John realized what he was talking about.

"Ah. Erm... right." He hastily went back to the closet, grabbing the laptop with more force that necessary and sprinting back to the half open door.

"Oh, and John..."

John turned again, forced. Was Sherlock just going to keep on torturing him?

Sherlock turned completely, flashing John a very up-close-and-personal full body scan before grabbing his robe from the top of the dresser. "Do stay out of my room. Personal space is not something to violate."

"Right, yes, right..." John stumbled out the bedroom, shakily closing the door before sliding down the wall outside, laptop clutched to his chest like a security blanket, heart hammering against his ribs.

He was going to kill Sherlock.

Hope you enjoyed! R&R always good. Plan on having more chapters posted soon!


	3. One More Miracle

*NOTE: I am so sorry for my laziness at updates! I am on my last week on summer vacay, so I will try very hard to whip out a few more chapters before I go back to school. Thank you to everyone who has been following and/or reviewing, it really means the world to me! Feedback appreciated and I hope you enjoy :)

**Title:** One More Miracle

**Genre: **Romance/Angst

**Summary: "**_He wants to watch those fingers fidget with the newspaper and run through their dark locks and fiddle with the dials on the microscope that toke up most of the kitchen, and still does because John refuses to get rid of it, because it would mean that Sherlock wasn't dead. __That he got his miracle. _" It's after the fall, Sherlock is gone, and John's nightmares are getting worse. But everything changes when John comes downstairs in the middle of the night to find his final miracle asleep on the sofa.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

He awakens at a quarter past one, drenched in sweat.

John collapses back onto the mattress, breath coming in short gasps, heart hammering against his ribs with such force he is half-afraid they might shatter. He closes his eyes, palms pressing into their sockets with a non-too delicate pressure. Spirals of dark color flash across his lids, brought on by the sudden force. He presses a little harder, making the spirals morph into stars, circles, triangles; trying to erase the still-fresh dream that is burned into his brain with neon intensity to no avail.

_There was so much blood. _

_ It oozes from the pavement itself, rising up from the earth and spilling over, crimson staining every inch of the street. He can't see where it's coming from. People mill around him and he can't see anything from around them. _

_Suddenly he sees a flash of blue. _

_A scarf. _

_Splash of dark curls, ruffled by the wind. _

"_Sherlock?" He pushes through the crowd, but can't quite reach the tall figure in front of him. He stretches out a hand, straining to catch a fistful of grey wool, but comes up with nothing but air. _

"_Sherlock!" He pushes harder, shoving at the faceless masses around him, drowning in a sea from which no one will help him. Sherlock is getting further away, too far to touch, too far to see. John calls out, trying to run but his legs won't work. He fights, fierce conviction propelling him forward, yet its like running through jello, and every step he takes seems to push him backwards, further from Sherlock's quickly disappearing figure. He cries out again, louder this time. Sherlock hears it and turns, still too far away. He is frowning, clearly confused about where the voice is coming from, and looks away after a split second, pushing onward through the crowd. _

"_Sherlock!" John is screaming now, desperation kicking in, hands clawing at the people around him, writhing to catch Sherlock's gaze. _

_Sherlock turns again, and this time he sees John. Those grey eyes lock with John's, and there is a moment of recognition, of surprise, of apology. Those eyes light up, mouth turning upward into the warmest smile John has ever seen, and for a half-second it seems as though everything will be okay. _

_Then a gunshot sounds, and suddenly Sherlock's body spasms as the bullet strikes him squarely in the chest. He staggers, but not before the barrage of impeding bullets attack him, pulverizing every inch of flesh they can find. _

_His temple, his shoulder, his cheek, his heart. _

_He crumples to the ground, vanishing into the ocean of strangers. _

"_SHERLOCK!" _

_And then John is running like he has never run before, beating down civilians left and right, feet pounding the pavement until he reaches the place where his hero has fallen. _

_He is ankle deep in it now, warm and red and sticky against his socks, and suddenly the source of the blood is apparent. John bends down, hands trembling as he touches Sherlock's face, tracing his jawline with one shaking finger. _

"_No..."_

STOP.

He knows he can't keep doing this to himself.

John sits up, eyes snapping open as he tries to shrug off the remnants of the nightmare to no avail. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, back tracking a few seconds before hitting "play".

_Those eyes light up, mouth turning up into a smile. A real smile. A smile reserved exclusively for John. It's not a sneer, or a humoring sort of twitch of the mouth, but a full fledged smile that lights up every millimeter of that face so that its practically glowing. John mentally inspects the shape of his lips, his nose, his cheekbones, trying to remember it all so that if anyone asks him what color Sherlock Holmes' eyes were, or the shape of his mouth or the shade of his fingernails- John will know. _

_ Though really, most of him doesn't want to know. _

_ Doesn't want to **have** to know, because he wants to be able to look across the room and SEE. He wants to watch those fingers fidget with the newspaper and run through their dark locks and fiddle with the dials on the microscope that toke up most of the kitchen, and still does because John refuses to get rid of it, and **then **be able to observe the shape of those fingernails, because it would mean that Sherlock wasn't dead. _

_ That he got his miracle. _

John fights against the tears that are now threatening to spill over, knuckling them away angrily when a few manage to sneak through. He turns away from the wall and swings his legs over the side of the bed, switching on the lamp in the process. He stares into the darkness of the room. He decided he needs tea, and moves toward the stairs, taking them one at a time. He finally reaches the bottom, and is about to turn into the kitchen, when he realizes there is someone asleep on the sofa.

John freezes, his entire body seizing up as a list of scenarios play through his head. Criminal. Assassin. One of Moriarty's people. Whoever they are, they are quite deeply asleep, and do not seem to be waking any time soon. Heart hammering, John moves off the bottom stair, squinting to make out a face. The only accessible light is coming from the kitchen, so he inches closer, warily watching the rise and fall of the person's chest. John's breath hitches in his throat and can feel his pulse growing more irregular by the second as his wariness grows, half-expecting the man to leap up and finish him off. However the soft breath of sleep continues to wash over the room, deep and methodical, so John inches slightly closer. The man looks as though he fell asleep quite by accident, half sitting, head lolling on the arm rest. The slump of his body suggests exhaustion, as though he has gone days, weeks even without sleep, and his clothes are rumpled and partially undone. John moves a few steps closer, now standing at the foot of the sofa. The soft light from the kitchen catches the man's face, and it is in this moment that John's heart fully stops beating, because there is no mistaking the lopsided cupid's bow and untidy curls and ridiculously long eyelashes as anything except the impossible.

John cannot even say his name, afraid that saying it will make him disappear and just evaporate through the cushions. John's knees have abruptly stopped functioning so he gives into their fatigue, crumpling onto the floor and closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning. When he opens them he expects the sofa to be empty, but it's not, and somehow the fact that Sherlock is hogging the sofa becomes the most beautiful fact his mind has ever registered. With one trembling hand, John reaches out and traces one of those cheekbones. It seems sharper than before, like the months they have spent apart have chiseled away some of the rosy flesh that once framed that impeccable face, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that John can feel it with his hand, with his fingertips, and that beneath it is a heartbeat that is strong and endless and _real. _

This is real.

Sherlock stirs, brow creasing as he surfaces from the depths of slumber and breaks the surface of reality. Eyelashes flutter upward, revealing a pair of eyes which are clouded with exhaustion and hunger. They blink once, twice, struggling to piece together their surroundings. Then his gaze meets John's, and everything falls into place. John can practically see the realization, as though Sherlock's skull has been made of glass, translucent, and through it he can see the maze of cogs and wires of that great mind, and suddenly everything just clicks. Sherlock bolts upright, still lethargic from sleep, but opens his mouth, an expression halfway between pain and circumspection flashing across those grey orbs.

Sherlock opens his mouth, unsure of what will come out. "John, I-"

John stops him with a hand, palm flattened as though to push him away. He can't deal with any explanations right now. He finally tries out his voice, testing to see if his linguistic abilities are still in any functioning capacity. "You were dead..." His voice cracks and he turns, embarrassed, slowly breathing as the surreality of it all crashes over him. In, out. In, out. Sherlock does not comment on John's obvious statement as he would have in the past, and somehow it's the lack of scorn that resonates most with John. The quiet acceptance of a mundane observation, so out of character, can only be the result of unspoken apologies and forcefully contained guilt. The passage of time which has so long separated them suddenly seems like eons, decades of private history to fill in the endless blank pages in the other's life.

Sherlock shifts on the sofa, and when he speaks it is very soft and careful, as though approaching a frightened animal. "John-"

John makes a sort of shushing noise, but it catches in his swollen throat and comes out as more of a whimper. He slowly stands onto shaking legs, bridging the final step to the sofa and extending a hand. Without taking his gaze away from Sherlock, John takes his hand in his own, thumb brushing the fragile skin of a wrist.

"John, what...?" Sherlock is met with another shush. The two look down at their clumsily twined hands, and Sherlock realizes what John was looking for.

Wordlessly, he guides John's hand to his pulse, and watches intently as they listen together to its gentle hum.

"It's alright." John is so close he can feel the rumble of Sherlock's rich baritone resonate in his chest. They pause again. Over and over and over again John feels the little pulse of energy beneath his fingers, and even after minutes of feeling it, rhythmic and certain against his own skin, he is certain he will never get enough. Sherlock moves ever so slightly closer toward him, silently begging for an answer. When none comes, he nervously reaches out and places his other hand on top of John's. The skin is warm and supple and melts effortlessly onto the hand below it, and John feels some of the pain in his chest begin to recede. "I'm here." The last two words are almost whispered, so quiet that John is half-afraid he imagined them, but Sherlock's eyes tell all. Dark and sad and boring into his heart with such tenderness that John knows this is all real, it _must _be real.

John doesn't even realize that there are tears on his cheeks until they splatter onto his knee, their wetness yanking him from the peaceful epiphany that is Sherlock. He doesn't try to hide the tears, not even when they break into sobs, shaking his shoulders with a ferocity that he didn't know he possessed. He falls into Sherlock's arms, clutching him close, absorbing the scent and feel and weight of him all at once. Sherlock stiffens for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. John's sobs are silent, but continue to shake them both with their intensity, pain and loss drenching them to the bone. After a moment, Sherlock ventures out an arm, and then another, and then the two embrace. It is fierce and gentle simultaneously, and neither is sure how long it lasts before they break apart. Sherlock reaches out and gingerly wipes away some of John's tears, an extremely stoic look on his face. John chuckles weakly, and Sherlock gives him a perplexed look.

John smiles, swiping away at the rest of the tears. "I guess I never expected you to ... I don't know. Be so... humane." He continues to grin, but it quickly falters as he sees the serious look still on Sherlock's face. The detective is frowning, looking around as though he wants to say something but isn't quite sure how to express it.

"Sherlock?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before biting his lip, eyes down. He finally looks up at John, and it takes a moment for John to register the moisture in his eyes.

"I.." Sherlock pauses and swallows, taking a deep breath. "I really missed you, John."

John's own eyes begin to well up again, and he sits down on the sofa, close enough so that their thighs are touching.

"I missed you too, Sherlock."

They sit quite still for a long time, unsaid words fluttering around like leaves. The golden light of the street lamps shreds through the curtains, but other than that is remains dark, and neither man moves to turn on a light. The words continue to linger, yet it seems unnecessary to speak them aloud, for as their gaze locks, it becomes clear that nothing can be said. It's all there- the anguish, the grief, the mitigation. They both know. They can feel it. Taste it trailing in the air.

It is unclear at first who initiates it, weather it was a brush of a hand or the bump of a foot or a slight scoot which resulted in a further compression of their legs, but somehow they wind up spooning on the sofa, Sherlock curled behind John, shoes left discarded on the hardwood. John closes his eyes, taking comfort in Sherlock's deep breaths, the steady rise and fall of his body curled up tight behind him. He doesn't say anything when he finds Sherlock's fingers twined with his own, nor Sherlock when he feels the soft brush of John's lips on his knuckles. The street outside begins to adopt the pale pink hue of dawn. The days and weeks of sleep-depravation seem to catch up with him, and John closes his eyes, knowing that his miracle will remain when he wakes up. He is almost asleep when Sherlock's voice rumbles in his ear.

"John..."

"Hmm?"

He feels the sofa shift slightly behind him, before Sherlock's warm breath whispers across his earlobe. "I'm sorry."

John squeezes their hands tightly. "It's alright" He says, and in that moment, no words have ever seemed more true.

FIN


	4. Unexpected Warmth

This was just a little bit of fluff I needed to get out of my system, and thought I might as well toss it into this mystery-box of stuff that is this collection. I am so tired of all this angst and UST, and just needed something where John and Sherlock could have some sweet intimacy. Enjoy!

Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, fluff, cuddling

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

"John..."

I look up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway of the living room, swaying awkwardly from foot to foot. His hair is rumpled, body damp with the fever sweat that is causing his robe to stick to the clammy skin beneath it.

I push away my laptop and stand.

"Sherlock I told you to stay in bed."

The words come out only half way scolding, the other half sticking in my throat in a little ball of warmth that floods through me the second I see his pouty expression. He takes a few wobbly steps toward the sofa, lowering himself down beside me and burying his face in my shoulder.

I plant a kiss on his head, stroking the dark curls for a moment before speaking.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep."

The words are muffled into my neck, sending a wave of hot breath fluttering across my jawline. He nestles deeper into me, shivering and digging a bony knee into my thigh as he presses into my body heat. I sigh and reach over, back of my hand brushing along the exposed skin on his neck. The pulse beating under its fragile tissue is frantic, fevered heat scalding to the touch. Another set of shivers vibrate the space between us and Sherlock stirs, whimpering into my ear.

I frown. "You're burning up."

Another whimper, almost inaudible, though it sends a pang through my heart that practically sends me to my knees. "S'cold.."

I run my free hand along his arm, rubbing to generate heat, though subconsciously I know this is the last thing he needs.

"That's the fever talking." I plant another soft kiss, this time on his left temple, rocking him in my arms as I mentally list out my plan of attack. Paracetemol, more fluids, maybe a bit of soup if I can coax him into it. He's usually more cooperative with Mrs. Hudson, but she's out of town for the weekend, so I'll have to make do. The flu had really hit hard, and I'd started to worry if I might not be better off taking him to a real doctor. Sherlock had quickly put out that idea, saying that I was the only doctor he needed, and though I'd been tempted to argue, I had yet to find the energy to resist his sorrowful face begging me from the sofa.

"Let's get you into bed, love." I finally manage, crooning the words into his hair. "You need to sleep."

He pulls me closer, shaking his head in a slow but firm "no".

I sigh. "Sherlock, you need rest... it's the only way you're going to feel any better..."

He squeezes me tightly, and there is something urgent in his touch, something brushing on the realm of anxiety as he pulls me closer.

"I just want to be with you."

A pale hand emerges from the mess of blue silk, curling protectively around my own into a warm cage of heat.

"I'm not going anywhere." I whisper.

Silence descends, our heartbeats delving into a uniform ripple of breath. The couch is deep and comfortable, and Sherlock's overheated skin is no longer overwhelming, but rather reassuring, pressed against me.

"I don't feel well, John."

The words are small and sad, magnified by the wet sniffle which follows behind them. His lips are very close to my ear, and between words I can hear the raspy quality of his breath as his lungs struggle to fill with air.

I squeeze our hands and pull him closer, ignoring the dampness of his hair and cheek against mine.

"I know, love. We're going to get you feeling better, alright?"

Another small nod, childishly resigned into my shoulder and followed by a damp sniffle.

"Can I stay here with you for a bit longer?"

I can't help but smile, oddly moved from hearing such little words emerging from the mouth of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"You can stay here as long as you want."

Sherlock shifts and moves his head into my lap, curling his long legs into a doughnut-like ball against the armrest. A few minutes pass, and before long I can sense that he has succumbed to the days and weeks of ignored fatigue, finally falling prey to those pesky human needs.

I smile softly and reach over, pulling a blanket off the back of the sofa and tossing it over us. His face is peaceful, lashes quivering slightly every now and again as if in thought.

I squeeze out hands together one last time, before letting my own eyes close, the dull hum of the rain lull us both to sleep.


End file.
